David chuckled over that for a long time after the valet had gone.

He was quite happy and contented.  He spent all afternoon in a roller chair, conversing affably with the man who pushed him, and now and then when Lucy was out of sight getting out and stretching his legs.  He picked up lost children and lonely dogs, and tried his eye in a shooting gallery, and had hard work keeping off the roller coasters and out of the sea.

Then, one day, when he had been gone some time, he was astonished on entering his hotel to find Harrison Miller sitting in the lobby.  David beamed with surprise and pleasure.

“You old humbug!” he said.  “Off on a jaunt after all!  And the contempt of you when I was shipped here!”

Harrison Miller was constrained and uncomfortable.  He had meant to see Lucy first.  She was a sensible woman, and she would know just what David could stand, or could not.  But David did not notice his constraint; took him to his room, made him admire the ocean view, gave him a cigar, and then sat down across from him, beaming and hospitable.

“Suffering Crimus, Miller,” he said.  “I didn’t know I was homesick until I saw you.  Well, how’s everything?  Dick’s letters haven’t been much, and we haven’t had any for several days.”

Harrison Miller cleared his throat.  He knew that David had not been told of Jim Wheeler’s death, but that Lucy knew.  He knew too from Walter Wheeler that David did not know that Dick had gone west.  Did Lucy know that, or not?  Probably yes.  But he considered the entire benevolent conspiracy an absurdity and a mistake.  It was making him uncomfortable, and most of his life had been devoted to being comfortable.

He decided to temporize.

“Things are about the same,” he said.  “They’re going to pave Chisholm Street.  And your Mike knocked down the night watchman last week.  I got him off with a fine.”

“I hope he hasn’t been in my cellar.  He’s got a weakness, but then—­How’s Dick?  Not overworking?”

“No.  He’s all right.”

But David was no man’s fool.  He began to see something strange in Harrison’s manner, and he bent forward in his chair.

“Look here, Harrison,” he said, “there’s something the matter with you.  You’ve got something on your mind.”

“Well, I have and I haven’t.  I’d like to see Lucy, David, if she’s about.”

“Lucy’s gadding.  You can tell me if you can her.  What is it?  Is it about Dick?”

“In a way, yes.”

“He’s not sick?”

“No.  He’s all right, as far as I know.  I guess I’d better tell you, David.  Walter Wheeler has got some sort of bee in his bonnet, and he got me to come on.  Dick was pretty tired and—­well, one or two things happened to worry him.  One was that Jim Wheeler—­you’ll get this sooner or later—­was in an automobile accident, and it did for him.”

David had lost some of his ruddy color.  It was a moment before he spoke.